Connections

The Internet is a wonderful thing, bringing targeted research so very close to what Bill Gates termed information at your fingertips. It has done nothing less than revolutionize my profession. What the PC guru didn't predict though, was just how much time can be sucked up by aimless browsing.

My brother just discovered the "best-of-Craigslist." I made the mistake of pointing him to a side-splitting for sale listing for an almost street-worthy Geo Metro. I had an excuse--I was sick in bed and the kids were home for Spring break, which meant that if I tried to do anything the least bit interesting or productive, they would immediately melt down and require my full attention. Conversely, if I wandered about in cyberspace with no purpose or read equally mind-numbing women's magazines, they happily puttered in their rooms for hours on end with nary a peep. Go figure.

One of the more interesting sections of Craigslist is the missed connections. We all know about these moments: the opportunity to connect that we somehow let slip by, usually out of fear of the unknown, of making a fool of ourselves, just a deer-in-the-headlights kind of moment. When you live in a big city, you are likely to see hundreds, if not thousands of people on a daily basis (unless you're cooped up in suburbia with bad sinuses), and anonymity is the rule.

I went to deposit checks last week, and discovered that the two bank tellers who knew me by name (and thus didn't have to look up my account number) have moved on: one up, one out. This should come as no surprise, as it is a notoriously high-turnover position. Still, it's a disappointment, to have to start all over to get to know someone, to turn an anonymous process into personal banking again.

It's cold again, cold enough that I worried about my tender young lettuces as the snow fell yesterday (and may again today). If I'd been more energetic, I would have got some row covers over the poor dears. As it was, I pulled my winter coat back out of the closet, since I knew I was going to need it at the market this week. After last week's festive, spring-like atmosphere, it was back to winter mode, with purveyors sporting fingerless gloves and sticking close to their propane heaters. One fellow noted that his chickens just weren't laying as much this week; folks didn't bother with the crushed ice to keep samples cold. I noticed that the butcher cut very slowly: no one wants to cut an appendage off, easy to do when said fingers are numb. It was cold enough that I did not tarry, pocketing my booty of chicken, thick pork chops, rye bread, butter (the ladies from the Golden Glen Creamery were there!) potatoes and garlic quickly, but still leaving enough time to greet Pete and the bread lady (my duck egg friend wasn't there, I shall have no eggs this week. I hope he's not ill).

As I waited for the light to change on the way back to the car, donning my gloves, and puffing steam, a woman of my vintage stepped up to wait next to me, carrying a bag of groceries and a holding a tight bouquet of red tulips and yellow daffodils in her gloved hand. She smiled at me, and her smile conveyed the same happiness that I feel too: the joy of getting to know the hands who grew the food for our week to come, and the exquisite anticipation of the good meals I have tucked in that lowly canvas bag. No, I didn't catch her name, but I don't need to post anything on Craigslist: this connection was not missed.

Eating like peasants

I was reading an article in the San Francisco Chronicle a while back about a food purist who had fallen on hard times. Her answer was to continue eating well, but injecting things with a sense of frugality unheard of since our parents’ generation. She would buy local free range chicken, but straight from the farmer, and feast on it for a week. You see, a whole chicken is quite useful. We’re so used to the sanitized pieces in the fluorescent-lit meat department that we’ve forgotten that chickens have things like feet and bones and livers and a heart that are actually valuable items in the kitchen. Six thighs? Who ever heard of a six-legged chicken? But two feet will give you a quart of stock fit for a king. Ask any Jewish grandmother.

The whole chicken that came over with friends for a joint Easter roasting was largely demolished in that one sitting: fresh air and the garlicky aroma wafting through the air had engendered hearty appetites indeed. But after we had bid our visitors good night, we turned to straightening up the kitchen. There were two pieces leftover, and a pan full of congealed yellow stuff. In true debauchery, we had not only fought over drumsticks (with the golden crunchy skin on them!), but had smothered our roast potatoes with gravy made from stock from the neck bone (with kidney giblets). The liver had also been in the stockpot to cook, and was fished out to make a quick pâté on crackers while the beast roasted. The tough heart went to the cat.

Of course, most people wouldn’t have had to face this apparent mess—their chicken would have been stripped of its skin and bones before it arrived in their house on a plastic tray, but I digress. Were I not my tightwad self, I would have unceremoniously chucked the greasy yellow gunk down the disposal and put the two odd pieces in the fridge to mold in a dark corner. I drained a bit of fat off the pan (into the food composting bin provided by the city), but the lion’s share went into a mason jar from the cupboard. I had to use a spatula to scrape the gelatinous glob from the bottom of the pan, but oh, what a treasure!

With both Darling Husband and myself still fighting our sinuses, we declared Monday leftover night: the leftover roast potatoes got fried up with some (duck) eggs and a bowl of rice and beans went into Number One Son. Little One and Darling Husband worked their way through savory loaf and rillettes and cheese, but I declared the chicken off limits. It is destined for chicken curry for rice night.

And that single cup of goop? Well, this morning I scraped the top layer of fat off the jar and used it to brown some onions. The demi-glace—for that is the French term for ze rich-tasting gelatin from the bottom of ze roasting pan—went into the pot with two quarts of water and some salt. Then I stole a corner of meat off of one piece and chopped it up, along with the last four market carrots. Two handfuls of barley, simmer for an hour, and eat piping hot. A king should have it so good.